He heard the church clock strike the hour twice before anything happened. He was beginning to wonder whether he had been sent on a wild-goose chase, and was considering giving up. It was freezing on the window-sill, and the bitter wind cut right through his clothes. He felt that if he did not climb down the vine soon, he would be too cold to do so at all.
Suddenly, he became aware that something was happening. Huddling down to peer through the split wood, he saw Master Burwell pacing around the hall, and heard him giving orders to Jacob Yaxley, who had been ousted from his room to make way for the plague ward. Yaxley was lighting more candles and sweeping the remains of the scholars' evening meal off the table onto the rushes. Burwell walked across Bartholomew's line of vision and seemed to be talking to someone else.
The wind rattled one of the shutters, and Bartholomew swore softly. If this happened, he would not be able to hear what was going on in the meeting. Carefully, he broke off a piece of vine, and jammed it under the loose wood. The wind gusted again, and Bartholomew saw with satisfaction that he seemed to have solved that problem at least.
The clock struck the hour again, and the activity in the hall increased dramatically. There was a growing murmur of voices, and Bartholomew could see a number of people filing into the hall. He was surprised: he had been expecting a small gathering of perhaps four or five people, but there were at least fifteen men, with a promise of more to come.
He heard someone banging softly on the table to bring the meeting to order.
'Gentlemen. I would not have called you here in this manner unless there was an important reason,' Burwell began. "I am afraid that our cause has suffered a grave setback.'
There was a mumble of concerned voices, and Burwell waited for them to die down before continuing.
'We have heard that the Acting Master of Michaelhouse has established contact with Oxford.'
The voices this time were louder, and held questions.
Burwell raised his hand. "I do not need to spell out the implications of this to you, gentlemen. We have been uncertain of Master Alcote's loyalties, and this proves we were correct. Our spies have intercepted messages from him telling which hostels were the weakest and most likely to flounder under pressure.
Oxford will now see that pressure will be brought to bear against these places, and the University will be undermined as they fall.'
The room erupted into confusion again, and Burwell had to bang on the table to bring the meeting back under control.
'What do you suggest we do?' asked one man.
Although he had his back to Bartholomew, he recognised the wiry black hair as belonging to the Principal of Mary's Hostel, Neville Stayne.
Burwell sighed. 'We could take Alcote from the equation,' he said. Bartholomew saw Stayne nod his head in approval, but there were voices of dissent.
'Who would succeed him? We might end up in a worse state,' asked another voice that Bartholomew did not recognise.
'It is most likely that Swynford would return,'
Burwell said. 'He is an unknown quantity to us: we do not know where his loyalties lie, but since he is not obviously for Oxford, like Alcote, it might be possible to talk to him and put forward our point of view.'
Bartholomew could see Stayne nodding again.
'But how would we rid ourselves of Alcote's mastership?' another person asked.
Burwell spread his hands. 'There are ways and means,' he said simply.
"I am concerned about the physician,' said Stayne, abruptly changing the subject. 'He has been asking questions at Mary's about Abigny.'
'We agreed that he would be left alone,' someone said firmly. Bartholomew felt physically sick as he recognised the voice of his brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore. He struggled to get a better view of the men seated at the table, and saw the blue sleeve embroidered in silver thread that was unmistakably Stanmore's. Bartholomew's shock made him clumsy, and he fell back harder against the window-frame than he had intended.
'What was that?' said Stayne, coming to his feet and looking towards the window suspiciously. Burwell joined him, and together they approached the window.
Bartholomew could see them standing only inches from it. He held his breath. Stanmore, too, came over, and to Bartholomew's horror, began to open the shutters. Now he would be discovered! He heard Stanmore swear as the shutter jammed. Bartholomew glanced down and saw that the twig of ivy he had used to stop the shutter from rattling was preventing Stanmore from opening the window.
'It is stuck,' Bartholomew heard him mutter. A sudden gust of wind rattled the other shutter.
'It is only the wind,' Burwell said, relief in his voice.
'We are all so nervous we are even afraid of the wind.
Come and sit down again.'
Bartholomew saw him put a hand on Stanmore's shoulder to lead him back to his seat. He let out a shuddering breath, and tried to concentrate on what was being said.
'No harm comes to Bartholomew,' said Stanmore firmly, 'or we are out of this. Your University can go to the Devil.'
'Hush, hush,' said Burwell placatingly. 'We will leave it to you to keep him out of our way. But you must understand that we cannot allow him to jeopardise the social stability of this country, which is what his meddling might bring about if he exposes some of our actions and the University falls.' "I will talk to him,' mumbled Stanmore. "I can ask him to join us.'
Stayne tutted angrily. 'He will not! I believe he holds Us responsible for the death of Babington. He will not join us, and even if he did, I would not trust him.'
'Let us not leap to conclusions,' said Burwell, intervening smoothly. 'Let Stanmore talk to Bartholomew, and we will leave it at that. For now,' he added ominously.
Bartholomew felt as though he was listening to arrangements for his own death and, despite the cold, felt beads of sweat break out on his face and prickling at the small of his back. Was it Burwell's group who had paid the blacksmith and the men in the lane to kill him? How had Stanmore become involved in all this?
He had nothing to do with the University. Bartholomew fought to quell the cold, sick feeling in his stomach, and concentrate on the meeting.
'Bartholomew is not the main problem,' Burwell continued. 'Michaelhouse is. Something is afoot at Michaelhouse of which we know nothing. I heard that Wilson never left his room, so how did the plague take him? How was it that the Michaelhouse Fellows arranged for him to be buried in the churchyard, and not in the plague pit? What of the rumours about the commoners that died that were so firmly quashed last summer? And finally,' he said, "I still do not accept that Babington killed himself. Neither did Father Aelfrith or Master Wilson when I questioned them. I think Michaelhouse is a rotten apple, and the quicker it folds in on itself and collapses, the better for us all.'
There were mutters of assent, and the meeting went on to discuss various scraps of information that had been gleaned via the spy networks: there had been a convening of anti-Cambridge scholars at Bernard Hall in Oxford; one of Cambridge's spies had been killed in a town brawl; and two new halls had been established in Oxford, but none in Cambridge.
'We must not allow them to become too much bigger than us,' said Yaxley. 'The bigger they become, the easier they will be able to crush us.'
'We are putting pressure on that widow who lives in the house near St Nicholas's Church to bequeath it to us,' said Burwell.'That will become StNicholas Hostel, and we are in the process of altering the house by Trumpington Gate. It should be ready for new scholars in a matter of weeks.'
Heads nodded, and murmurs of approval were given. Bartholomew saw Stayne glance at the hour candle. 'It is growing late,' he said, 'and we must end this meeting. So, we are all to keep a keen ear for potential houses that can be converted into hostels; Stanmore is to deal with his brother-in-law; and as for Michaelhouse, do we act, or let it drown in its own corruption?' "I do not see what else we can do but watch,' said Burwell. 'We know Father William sympathises with us generally, and we know that Alcote and Bartholomew do not. We do not know where Swynford or the Benedictine stand, and that flighty boy — Abigny — has apparently vanished. I suggest we wait and watch. We especially watch Alcote and his dealings. I would like everyone here to make that a priority.'